50 Shades of Regina Mills
by JennMaryn
Summary: Regina and Emma have signed a contract. A contract that's binding . . . for you never disobey a queen. SwanQueen. *(Contains graphic sex scenes involving BDSM. STRONGLY NSFW/18 )
1. The Contract

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: I do NOT, in any way, endorse the 50 Shades of Grey series and its respective films. The only reason I am referencing it in my title is to make it more clear upon first glance what subject matter this story will contain. Those books are in no way a representation of true BDSM. Because I am against abuse in any form, I have gone very out of my way to be sure that Regina is, in no way, abusing Emma in this story. This is, what I hope, a very healthy expression of a BDSM relationship. I wanted to write a story on such a thing, due to how badly it's been butchered by that abysmal series . . . and what better people to use than Emma and Regina? I don't know. They just work. I can totally see Regina wanting this. Swan Queen has mad chemistry, yo. Anyhow, happy reading. **

* * *

Well, here we go.

My palms are sweating. I clench them, swallow, and knock on Regina's door. There is no reason to be nervous. Maybe a year ago, yes . . . but now? No.

_Calm down, Emma. _I reassure myself. I **know** her. I _know_ this woman. And despite my, and, well, _everyone's_ better instincts . . . I trust this woman.

The ivory door slides open then, just a bit, and there she stands: the immeasurable Regina Mills: the Queen. She is dressed in all gray today; a sharp, regal suit made of suede complements a pencil skirt and gray thigh-high boots of the same material. It's quite the contrast to my wifebeater, jeans, and tan leather jacket, but this is nothing new for us. She stares at me in the doorway, her deep eyes unblinking, and then, without a word, ushers me inside.

It's not the first time I've been here — far from it — but the air feels . . . different somehow. I am entering the mansion not as an enemy, nor an ally, but as . . . Emma. Emma; Regina's Emma. It's strange, very strange . . . but nice, in a way. Very nice. For a moment, it distracts me from my racing thoughts. I follow the woman into her kitchen — still, we have not exchanged any words — and we sit at the counter in the middle of the room, facing one another. Regina is staring at me; I feel shy, suddenly, at the intensity of the situation, and find myself looking toward the floor more often than I can meet her eyes . . . as beautifully dark and twisted as they might be.

"So," Regina speaks first, her tone calm and smooth. She does not seem phased in the slightest, but I can tell she is, at the very least, the tiniest bit anticipatory. "Shall we begin?"

"Where's Henry?" I ask; I want this answered before anything.

"He's at a friend's today. I can assure you there will be no interruptions."

I don't answer right away, and, as if this had not been enough of a statement, Regina looks up at me and adds, "Henry is the last person I would ever want to know about . . . all of this."

"Right," I say. Of course.

As if on cue, Regina slowly slides a clear folder onto the table. She opens it, and removes the piece of paper inside, gracefully.

"You'll have to walk me through," I suddenly cut in with, my eyes resting casually on her, and then darting to the floor again, if only briefly. Stupid what adrenaline makes one do. "I'm new to all of this."

"Emma," Regina responds, again, piercing me with her dark irises; almost reprimanding. "I know what I'm doing."

"Right, but I don't."

"Well then you'll just have to keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking, won't you?"

My mouth thins in annoyance and stubbornness; Regina's snappiness doesn't phase me. She seems to notice this, and her eyes dart back to the paper in front of her.

"Sorry," she adds, clumsily. She's never been good at apologizing. None-the-less, it's enough of a gesture to bring a small smile to my face. "Let's begin."

She clears her throat, and reads.

"Part One — Roles."

I sit, quietly, and listen, expertly and acutely, studying her; never letting even one expression go unnotated.

"This is where we discuss the parts each of us will play," she continues to explain. "First off, who will be the dominant . . . me."

She takes a moment and writes something down; presumably her name.

"And the submissive . . . that would be you." She looks at me, briefly, as if confirming with me; I do nothing but stare back. She seems to take my cue as an okay, and writes again.

"Type of play?" She reads out.

"What do you mean — _type_ of play?"

"Master/slave, mistress/slave, captive, age play, servant—"

"Woah, woah, woah, slow down. One at a time."

Regina rolls her eyes, huffs, and then reads, much more slowly this time.

"Master/slave. Yes or no."

"Yes."

She takes the pen to the paper and makes a note, then continues.

"Mistress/slave, that's largely the same thing . . . captive, we've discussed previously . . . age play is simply juvenile, but I—"

"Hey, let me see what you're writing."

Regina does nothing at first; she continues reading.

"Put the contract on the table." I command.

Huffing again, Regina stops, and looks up, clearly annoyed. "Emma, I'm not writing anything other than what I'm reciting to you—"

"Well then put it on the table. I want to see what goes onto the paper."

"What— you don't trust me?"

"Put it. On the table."

Regina stares at me for a long moment, and then, irritated, places the contract in the middle of us, almost slamming the paper down in her short-tempered response. I can see all of her pen markings and all of the contract; this is much better. I grin.

"Happy?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"As I was _saying_," she huffs. "Servant/queen, perhaps . . . "

"Yeah, circle that one. And animal play." I've spotted it on the paper.

Regina looks at me.

"**Really**?"

I smirk. "I've always wanted to see you with cat ears."

"Well, we'll see about _that_." Regina seems embarrassed; I highly doubt she'll ever do it in that moment. She does, however, circle it.

"Do you have any other inexplicable fantasies, or shall we move on?"

"We can move on," I say.

"Any chance of switching roles?" Regina responds in a quick, efficient manner.

"You mean — like . . . me being the dominant?"

She meets my eyes; I stare back, almost smirking. In fact, I think I am. The very thought excites me immensely.

"Yes. Like _you_ being the dominant." There is no change of expression, but her tone sounds a bit disapproving.

I give a little nod. "Is there?"

"We can . . . discuss that," Regina says, neither confirming nor denying.

"We are discussing it."

Regina swallows, staring at the paper, refusing to look at me.

"What; you don't want me to dominate you?"

"Alright, fine." She looks up at me, her expression, again, one of annoyance; but I can tell she is only as such because I'm making her admit if she has ever wanted such a thing. Whether she has or not is irrelevant; she seems to want to appease me just to move forward, and checks the yes. "We can leave the _possibility_ open."

Something tells me we'll come back to that one.

"May the submissive verbally resist?" She reads, clearly wanting to move on.

"Oh, you bet I will."

"Physically?"

"Depends on my mood."

"It's a yes or no, Miss Swan."

I almost want to laugh at the revert to my first nickname; something about it here, however, seems fitting. "Yes."

"May the submissive try to turn the tables?"

"Sounds like fun."

Regina reads the next part, slowly — smoothly. I can tell she likes this one.

"May the dominant overpower — or "force" — the submissive?"

"Force me to do what?"

Regina responds, her words a bit breathy, as if attempting to be casual about it.

"Anything."

"Anything?"

"Well. Anything . . . within the terms of this contract."

I think for a long moment.

"Sounds risky." I finally settle with. I know Regina; I know what she's capable of.

"You can always safeword, you do realize."

I quirk a brow, and my head. "Safeword?"

"Yes." She's looking at me again, this time with no annoyance.

"What's a safeword do?"

"It stops everything — immediately. No matter what the contract states."

"And you'll listen to that?" In the heat of the moment, Regina's been known to . . . do impulsive things.

"What do you think I am?" She suddenly snaps, as if the question had offended her, and I'm a bit taken aback by it. "I'm not a _savage_."

"Okay," I say, surprised at the intensity of her response, and I can tell she is not lying. "Alright. Sorry."

"Can we get back to the negotiations, please?"

"Sure, but shouldn't we decide on a safeword?"

"We will GET to that. That's a whole other section."

She's growing impatient, and I trust her, so I nod. "Alright, then. Hit me."

That seems to calm her. I think about that for a second. No pun intended. Clearing her throat, she moves on.

"The submissive agrees to address the dominant by the following title—"

"Your Majesty."

She writes this on the line, in thin, beautiful script, and I can tell she is smirking, if only slightly.

"Are you going to use magic?" I suddenly interject.

Regina stops; looks at me. "What?"

"Magic. Are you going to use it?"

Raising one brow, she pauses, and then responds, in a slightly husky tone.

"Do you want me to use magic?"

"I don't know. How much magic are we talking?"

"… As much as I deem necessary."

"And can _I_ use magic?"

With a sigh, she widens both eyes and looks down at the contract, as if doubtful. "That has enormous potential for disaster, if you don't mind me saying so."

"You can use magic to force me, right. So I can use magic to resist."

Regina blinks, slowly, and then lets out a sigh.

"If you want to try and muster up whatever spell you can muster up, fine. You do you. But don't expect me to go easy on you."

She's serious; and that's only slightly unsettling. Regina is a hardass. Then again, so am I.

"Fine." I haven't stopped looking at her; the word rolls smoothly off my tongue. "Yes."

We continue to go through more mundane things . . . limits, medical conditions, location. The whole shebang. It's important, of course, but it's boring. I'm starting to grow restless, and I can't help but to show it.

"Does any participant believe they may have a sexually transmitted disease?" Regina drones.

"No; how much longer until this is done?"

"This is all very important, Emma; I highly suggest you pay close attention."

"Look, I am. I'm just . . . this is taking longer than I thought. No, I don't have herpes, no I haven't tested positive . . . you know that. We both know that. We've only slept with each other in the span of . . . well. A year, now?"

"It's becoming quite clear to me why I never assigned you to do paperwork in any capacity," Regina muses without looking up.

"You never assigned me to do paperwork because you never assigned me to do anything. You tried to poison me, actually."

"Shall we continue?" Regina ignores me, clearing her throat, speaking more loudly.

I quirk both brows in playful, nonverbal retort, and nod at her to do so.

"This part should interest you," she says, and her voice is more sultry this time; the tone makes me anticipate. "Bondage."

I'm listening.

"The submissive agrees to allow _only_ the following types of bondage . . . here." She points at a list with her pen, and then holds it out to me. "Circle them."

I take the pen, tentatively, and then give it a look. It's rich with things like _'hands in front' _or _'use of blindfold' _or _'tied to chair.'_ I read them all, carefully, and circle which ones I am okay with. Sliding the pen back to her, I wait for her to react.

She scans over it, and then recites the next line.

"Any past bad experiences by either person with bondage, gags, blindfolds . . . '

"Yes."

She waits, looking at me.

"Which."

"Uh. Gags. No gagging. And no chairs, either."

It's true, and my mind suddenly wanders back to that night in the Hatter's mansion . . . a dark, dreary drug-stupor in which I was held hostage; a prisoner to a lonely madman who just wanted his daughter back. But that hadn't been the worst part; it was lucky I had the survival instincts I did . . . no, the worst had been cutting my ties, removing my gag, and making my way through the hallway . . . only to open a door and see my mother, Snow White, trapped and gagged in a lone, isolate room.

Regina seems to remember this. I can't remember if I told her or not, but she nods.

"Fair enough." She marks the paper appropriately, and is about to read the next section.

"What about you?" I ask.

"What _about_ me."

I've just opened up to her, and I think she realizes that. But I'm still curious.

"Have any bad experiences?"

She doesn't want to meet my eyes, I can tell. "Any _past_ experiences I may or may not have had I can handle."

"What'd she do to you."

"Emma—"

"Cora, right? Your mother? She was something else— what'd she do to you?"

Regina closes her eyes for a long moment, massages her temples, and then speaks.

"She did . . . a lot of things. Nothing I want to divulge in, and nothing I want to linger in my present. I am a grown woman. And as I've _already_ stated . . . nothing I can't handle."

It's a shame, really. I feel horrible; I'm sure Cora's done some pretty messed up things — and fairly often, too, if she's so desensitized. But I don't push her. Regina has a habit of becoming vulnerable in the least expectant moments; this will probably be no exception.

"Pain."

"What?"

"Pain," Regina repeats, and then raises one brow. It's sexy; I almost feel myself become putty in her hands . . . and she's not even touching me. "The next section. Pain."

"Alright," I say, after a moment's silence. Slowly, she tears her gaze from mine, and begins reading.

"The submissive's general attitude toward receiving pain."

"Umm."

"There are choices." She sets the paper down again, handing me the pen. "Circle one."

I glance down. Jesus. This is all so involved . . .

_Pain_? I can't say I've ever yearned to feel pain . . . I mean, has anyone? One glance up at Regina and I can tell she's got me pinned; studying my every move. This section is of the utmost importance to her . . .

Reading the choices once again, I think.

_Likes, accepts, neutral, dislikes, will not accept._

Hm. Part of me wants to check dislikes . . . but in a sexual setting . . . this may be different. I'm here because I'm willing to try anything, aren't I? Slowly, I take the pen to the line that reads neutral, mark it, and then look up at Regina, trying to gauge her reaction. She stares right back at me, but doesn't say a word. She simply takes the pen I've set down, looks at the next question, and marks it.

_Dominant's general attitude toward giving pain._

She places an x on the line that reads: likes.

_Quantity of pain the dominant wants to give._

An x on the line: large.

It's a power play now, and I like it. My heart's racing.

"Is this your way of getting me to fear you?" I say, sarcastically.

"Don't tempt me, Miss Swan."

The way she says my name again makes me crazy. I'm really starting to like this.

* * *

A few sections later, and we're close to wrapping it up.

"Alright," Regina says, taking the papers in her hands and hitting the edges gently against the countertop to even them out. "Now is the matter of the safeword."

"Right."

"What shall we use, then?"

"It's up to me?"

"You are the submissive."

I think for a moment; it's a little difficult to do so.

"If only Henry were here," I joke, and she sighs out, but takes the comment in jest, smiling a bit.

"Yes, he'd . . . certainly have a good one to use."

"Mongoose."

"What?"

"Mongoose. That's the word. Mongoose."

Regina stares at me, and her mouth curls into a grin. "Operation Mongoose," she whispers.

She likes it. I nod, and she writes it down.

"And this will be safeword #1. If anything, at any time, ever becomes too much for you — you say 'mongoose.' No matter what we're doing, that word will end things."

"And what if my verbal use is restricted?"

Regina blinks.

"Then you nod. Three times. Three times, and I will cease. Three nods, or one 'mongoose,' and we end. Clear?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Now we need a second safeword."

"For?"

"Perhaps you may want me to slow up. You say this word, rather. Slow, but not stop."

"Okay. Um. . . . Curse?"

Regina waits for a moment, as if wanting an explanation.

"Well, you know. Because of that curse. That . . . curse you put on everyone . . . it made them pretty . . . slow. Slow moving. Their minds were all jumbled, or whatever."

She gives a small shrug, as if agreeing. "Fair enough. 'Curse' means slow up."

"And if I can't speak?"

"Two nods."

"This is an awful lot to remember," I say, and she rolls her eyes.

"I'm sure you'll manage, dear, what with all of the other things you've managed to use against me."

We agree, though, and continue on. After a few more moments of last minute reviewing, Regina comes to the end.

"Aaaand, we've reached the last of it. Take a look, Emma," she says, and hands me the contract. "See if this appeals to you."

I take the paper, and scan over it, once, but I'm too impatient really to study much of the details. I know she's done well; been thorough. I trust her.

"Good?" Regina asks, after a long minute.

"Yup." I say, with a little sigh. This was it; all or nothing.

"Good. Then sign here," she points to a space on the bottom, beside her own thin, scripted signature.

I do so.

Sliding the contract over to Regina, I see her smirk — fully. It's the first time she's done so yet. She stares at the paper, vividly, for a few baited moments, and then addresses me.

"You may go."

"—That's it? You're sending me out?" I'm disappointed. "We're not going to — you know. _Try_ anything?"

"And gratify you so quickly? Come now, Emma. You've been terribly impatient." She's having fun with this; her face scrunches with coy amusement. "Why not make you wait just a _bit_ more."

I'm irritated; I stare at her, brows furrowed. Suddenly she is the Evil Queen again, and I'm her victim. Now that she is my binding dominant, however, I cannot truly do much about it. It's her call.

"Fine."

"Have a good day, my dear."

I get up, quickly, flustered and annoyed all in one, and begin striding out toward the doorway, fists clenched. _What a rotten —_

"Oh, and Miss Swan?"

I stop, and turn to face her.

"Yeah?"

"Meet me in my vault. Wednesday."

Wednesday. It's only two days away. A burst of adrenaline rushes through me; I nod.

"Okay."

She smirks, hungrily.

"And bring your handcuffs."


	2. The First Time

**Happy Sunday, SQers. Enjoy. ;)**

* * *

I've never liked coming to this place. At least not since I've been here with . . . well, Graham. It's an eerie sort of place, Regina's vault . . . chalk full of violent memories and reminders of the past . . . a past both of us have long attempted to escape.

I wonder how Regina can stand to be here, I muse as I make my way up the dark path; these memories aren't haunting just for me. This isn't just a home away from home for Regina — a secret hideout in the woods. It's a casket of locked away hearts . . . victims she's kept, people she's hurt, killed, even . . . a time in which she was so far succumbed into the darkness of her own soul that she could hardly see who she was any longer. A time in which she's worked so hard to overcome.

But I know why she's chosen this place. It's isolated; it's quiet. No one will ever find us here, especially Henry. And despite all of the reminders, the past is just that: a past.

Regina is a different woman now. Or, perhaps, the woman she was always meant to become, if not a little more broken in between.

I'm alone.

Edging into the entrance of the place, I cautiously look around, and then call out to her.

"Regina?"

There is no answer, and I make my way further inside.

"Regina," I call out again, my voice echoing. "I'm here. I brought the—"

But I stop, dead in my tracks. Regina is standing smack in the center of the vault, staring back at me . . . surrounded by the hundreds of ticking, beating hearts stashed within the walls. She is dressed in an all black get-up, with a large, royal collar accenting her shoulders . . . her neckline plunging; a big, jeweled necklace decorating her ample cleavage. The dress is corseted, with the wet look, tucking her waist in as far as it might go . . . and she has black lace leggings to accompany her stiletto shoes.

If I didn't know any better, I'd say she was dressed in some sort of modernized **Queen** outfit . . . and, hell. I _didn't_ know any better. I'd never seen this before . . . it reminded me very much of the illustrations in Henry's book . . . if not a bit more easy to maneuver in.

Regina is standing proudly, with one hand on her hip.

"Wow," I let out a pleasantly surprised little breath; I can't help it. "Wear that more often."

"It's _your_ _Majesty_."

She lifts her chin, proudly, and smirks at me.

"Right," I say, brushing off the comment. "I uh . . . brought the handcuffs. Like you said."

Lifting my wrist to show her, I flatten my lips in self-conscious anticipation.

Regina eyes me from over her nose, a blood-lustful look I've seen only in moments of pure extremity gracing her features. Truly, she looks much like the Evil Queen she once was . . . and I stop walking, feeling very much like a rabbit before the wolf.

"Good," she coos, and then begins toward me, the slow stride in her step forcing me to stay completely still. I watch her through furrowed brows, and she circles me.

"Regina."

"No need to be uneasy, dear — we both know the rules." She stops in front of me; looking me up and down, and then smiling with her teeth. It's been quite a long time since she's been so . . . calm . . . so _controlling_ . . . over me, and I can tell she's really getting into this.

I'm calming, though, and my fire is returning. I can feel my features falling into an expression of gentle challenge, and I stare at her right back.

"Now," Regina says, in a grainy, almost hiss — milking every single syllable that comes out of her full, luscious mouth. I want to bite her bottom lip in that moment . . . walk forward and tug at it with my teeth. "Take the handcuffs, and clasp one around your left wrist."

"Why." I do bite, but in another way — with my stubbornness.

She crooks her neck and raises one brow at my immediate disobedience.

"Is that _defiance_?"

"Just wanna know what you're gonna do to me."

"Do as I _say_." Her voice has become harsh; louder. It's the tone she uses when she's losing her temper, and wants to warn the other that they are simply mincemeat at her feet; it almost never lies. "Or there will be _consequences_."

A part of me wants to roll my eyes, and I do; maybe not intentionally, but she definitely sneers, and I'm suddenly aware that, yeah; _whoops_. I did. It's just an automatic response to Regina bossing me around, I guess . . . though I can't say it doesn't turn me on.

Before I know what's hit me, though, a strong force of purple mist is seizing me by the wrist, as if a burst of incredible wind has taken control of my body. The handcuff is snapped into place around my wrist by magic — just like that. My eyes widen and I stare at it, and then look at Regina. I can feel my heart quickening; the adrenaline from my immediate fight-or-flight response is arousing.

I feel the corners of my lips being tugged upwards . . . I'm smirking.

Regina doesn't smile back, though. She's not even looking at me. Instead, she's resumed circling, looking toward the ground ahead as if ordering me around is the easiest thing she's ever had to do.

"Now. Take the other free cuff, and latch yourself onto the handle . . . at the other end of the room."

"Against the wall?" I ask, raising a brow.

"Mm."

I stand there, without moving.

Regina stops circling and looks at me. She sneers.

"Do not **MAKE** me use magic again."

Part of me wants her to, though, and I continue to disobey — if just for a moment. She's raising both brows expectantly, and I realize I can't resist that face; I slowly start toward the far end of the vault, doing as she says.

"Good," she says to my back. "Keep going, Miss Swan. All the way to the end."

Lips flattened in impatience now, I reach the last handle; the last row of heart boxes on this side of the vault. Turning around, lifting my wrist upward, I shoot her a glance. "Here?"

A burst of magic again; before I can react, I'm attached to the wall — Regina cuffs the other side to the silver handle. My arm is raised, unable to be freed; I'm trapped.

"What's the matter," I throw back, sassily, trying to pull away unsuccessfully. "I take too long?"

Regina's smiling, again with her teeth, as she approaches me.

"Silence."

Now her eyes are piercing mine. I refuse to look away . . . the leer is _electric_ . . . those unending pools of dark, beautiful _vengeance_. She's communicating with me through them:_ I will devour you,_ she says, and, at the same time, if only visible to someone like me: _please, let me in._

She's close enough to touch me now, and she does just that; her face hovering over mine as she reaches out and strokes the side of my face with the tips of her long nails. She cups my chin before letting go, and when she speaks, it's a husky, sultry whisper, like a dragoness. "Yessss." She lets the ending hiss out through her large teeth, and touches me again, meeting my eyes. "Yesss, the Savior is _trapped_."

I want to protest — want to react — want to throw some remark back in her face. But her touch sends a chill up my spine; I can feel my neck hairs standing on edge. I swallow, watching her every move with anticipation. She's shut me up.

Now she's running her other hand down the left side of my body, tracing the outline of my curved waist with her palm, softly. So slowly; so softly. It's insane what these hands have accomplished, and yet, her touch is so **gentle** . . .

"I see you've dressed for the occasion," she murmurs, but it's sarcastic — I'm in skinny jeans and a white button-up shirt with a wrinkled collar. Again, I want to react; but I'm much too aware that her other hand is snaking its way down the left side of my body . . . the side not handcuffed to the wall. Slowly, _slowly_, she's scratching down my arm . . . along my stomach, over the fabric of my clothes . . . sliding down to the waistband of my pants. She's slipping the tips of her fingers beneath, touching my skin . . . her hand now pressed against my flesh due to the tightness of the fabric. I swallow again; it's really distracting. _Oh, God. Just __**touch**__ me. _

But she's stopped; she's tapping her fingers beneath gently against my abdomen, close to my groin. Smiling triumphantly, as if she's already won a game I don't even realize I've started, she slides her hand up and out, and then backs up.

"Hey," I whisper, involuntarily and almost desperately, begging her to come back. She's teasing me; I don't like it.

Regina says nothing; she simply straightens up, and faces me, standing tall. With one nod of her head, she utters one simple command:

"Strip."

"What?"

"_Strip_."

I look confused, and, as if she believes I need more of an indication, nods at my jeans.

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm handcuffed to the wall, Regina."

"Strip." Her eyes graze mine — they're full of fire. "And it's _your Majesty_."

She means business. My chest is heavy with both a sigh and intense longing for her touch once more. _I guess I do have one free hand._ Frowning, I reach down with the arm not cuffed, and begin unbuttoning my jeans. After loosening them, I slide them off, as slowly as possible, down my legs . . . but doing so with one hand and limited mobility only allows for so much. I can't slide them all the way, so I kick them down and off. It takes a few tries, and it's anything but smooth, but my jeans finally fall to the floor, revealing my lacy black panties beneath. I haven't worn these for a while; usually only for special occasions . . . like, well. Regina and I. But I have a feeling she likes them — has always liked them — and, judging by the satisfied smirk upon her lips as she eyes my naked abdomen, I can confirm.

"Hmm." She hums, almost, a lulling sound in the back of her throat. Meeting my eyes, she blinks, lazily.

"The shirt needs to come off, too."

"You're kidding, right?" Now this I definitely can't do.

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" She responds, harshly, eyeing me with a serpent's glare. She calms just as quickly, however, and sashays toward me again. "Allow _me_."

She reaches forward with those words, and tucks her fingers beneath the bottom of my T shirt, gently. I can feel the magical energy, however, and a purple haze suddenly slithers from her touch . . . I can feel the fabric loosening, drifting away from my skin. It slides off of me, effortlessly, as if weightless — as if I had only been covered in a thin, cloud-like sheet. Regina casts it away, to the floor, and I'm in only my lingerie now.

She places one hand on the crook of my waist, and the other upon my neck. She leans in and takes my lips in hers, kissing me deeply. Regina's kisses have always been surprisingly soft — intense, but soft — and this is no exception. She never uses her tongue, though, not while kissing; that's something I like to do, and even then her teeth usually barricade any attempt. She's more of a biter; as if she is too on guard for any tongue, no matter what the circumstances. I push my chin forward, and bite her bottom lip, tugging at it, pulling her toward me.

Regina pulls away, though, and I can feel the hand on my waist moving down. Slowly, she inserts her fingers beneath my underwear, and slides two between my legs, probably to get a feel for how aroused I am. And. _Shit. Am I wet. _I can feel myself physically aching for her; hadn't realized just how much until now. Regina notices it, too; she looks down at her hand and smirks, smug, rubbing me gently. Without a word, she slides her fingers up, trailing my fluids diagonally, toward my hip. She meets my eyes again, showing her teeth in a menacing, chesire cat grin.

To hell with this.

"Fuck, Regina," I whisper. "Would you just get on with it?" I haven't been this impatient since . . . well, God knows when.

"Watch yourself, Miss Swan." She runs her wet fingers in circles against my skin, and then raises both brows, as if she's done nothing more than pick a flower. "Your mouth may get you into trouble one of these days."

"It already has, loads of times," I say. I'm pissed; I want her in me. "Now fuck me."

"_Silence_." She snaps her gaze back up to leer at me; I leer back. "Or I will _leave_ you here."

I'm frowning, but I shut up — I know she means it. Without another word, Regina looks back down, and slides her fingers between my legs once more, rubbing me again. She's taking her time; gloating about how wet I am.

And then, she's massaging my clit with her fingers . . . slowly at first, barely touching me. Her fingers are moist, though, and I'm warm; throbbing even. Gradually, she increases her rhythm, in those small, torturous circles . . . almost squeezing the little bundle of nerves between her fingers. I close my eyes and arch my back, relaxing against the wall . . . curling into her touch. Bending my leg, I slide my foot upward . . . my knees begin to relax.

"Mmmmmmmm," I sigh out, parting my lips as she works. She knows what to do with me — she's familiar with my body.

"Ahh — ahh," I groan as she shifts her fingers, just a bit, and then open my eyes. I reach down and place my hand against hers, wanting to guide her.

But Regina suddenly snaps my hand away, her magic throwing it, upward, against the wall. I try to resist, but a purple, snakelike vine has my wrist . . . I'm pinned . . . on a crucifix.

I moan, feeling myself burning at her touch, and the only thing I can do now is maneuver my hips with her. She's still working, staring down at her hand as she does; I open my eyes to meet hers, but she refuses. I'm hardly aware of this, though.

"Regina," I breathe out as I gyrate against her, clumsily; it's unbearable. I'm going to cum. I can feel my release threatening to flow from between my legs . . .

And then, she's sliding down . . . I barely register what she's doing . . . when had she taken off my panties? . . . quickly, she removes her hand, takes my thighs in both, and hoists me up, placing them on her shoulders. She then presses her mouth to me. Using her tongue, she continues her prior rhythm against my clit — the moves precise, delicate, and expert. She knows exactly what I like. Closing her lips around me, she sucks inward, still using her tongue.

I can't help it now — I let out an incredibly loud groan. Squirming, I tighten my legs around her neck and push myself into her — she's encouraged by the movement. She goes harder. Faster.

"S-S-St- . . . Sto . . . p . . ."

But she doesn't stop, and I'm on the verge once more; I can feel the black seeping in around my vision. I throw my head back against the wall and open my mouth, releasing another loud moan. It echoes.

Regina's got both hands upon the small of my back now, holding me in place, and she scrapes her long nails slowly and viciously down my flesh. The sting, along with the burning between my legs, is exhilarating, and it's enough to send me over the edge. I breathe out, and release, feeling my entire body surrender to that indescribable feeling of ecstasy. Regina's slowed, too, following the course of my body's response, but she's still licking me . . . running the length of her wet tongue against my clit, trailing my fluids up and onto my stomach. She stops, and kisses me there, her eyes closed, her nose pressed against my flesh.

I'm panting, and I want to be undone from the wall. If not for Regina, I would be swinging by my wrists right now. Loosening my legs, unlocking my knees, I slide them off of her shoulders, and she stands, respectively. Her lips are moist, but she's not smiling.

"You're going to wake up the whole neighborhood with that mouth of yours, you do realize."

"Are you serious?" I say, between pants. "We're in the middle of nowhere!"

"And that really was too easy, dear." She pulls away, and I watch her lick her fingers clean, swallowing. "How impatient _were_ you for this?"

"Pretty damn impatient," I admit, but I'm pretty sure that's obvious. My chest is still heaving, and I'm naked from the waist down. Regina smirks.

"This was only the beginning."

I watch her for a moment, perplexed; she's smiling at me. With a flick of her wrist, she frees me from the wall — I stand, slowly.

"Get dressed."

I move to do as she says, but I'm still wondering what she meant.

"You want anything else?" I ask. "We've got this place to ourselves, I mean . . . "

"No, no." She waves me away. "That was enough of a. _Preview_. For now."

But I'm stubborn; pulling my pants on, I button them and move toward her. "I want to taste you now." _Your Majesty. _I almost say it — maybe it will please her — but can't really bring myself to. It's too silly.

"No, Emma." She's coming out of her role — that is evident by the first name. "Not today. In time."

I deadpan. She had me helpless; squirming against her mouth._ I don't even get to repay the favor?_

She seems to sense my displeasure though, and looks at me. There is softness in her eyes now; the fire is gone. "Patience, my dear. Patience."

I sigh, loudly. "Alright." Placing my hands in my pockets, I continue. "I've gotta get back anyway; kid's gone on a comic book run and I promised I'd meet him and the rents for dinner." Regina doesn't react to this, but I know how much she would rather not be reminded of my lineage. "Wanna come?" I figure being polite can't hurt.

"I've heard quite enough incomprehensible babbling for one day, thank you."

Rolling my eyes at the jab, I pick my shirt up to pull it on, and begin buttoning it.

"When can we do this again?" I ask.

"In time," Regina says, with a bit of a sigh. "First, though. I have to think of your punishments." Her voice has returned to its slick, commanding tone again at that, and she smirks at me.

"My . . . what?"

"You're a very mouthy girl," Regina responds. "You need some good punishments for when you're being disobedient."

Raising both brows, I respond.

"And do I get a say in this?"

"Oh, you'll hear each and every one of them. Your actions; their respective punishments."

I feel my heart quickening again as she addresses me, but I'm definitely interested.

"Come back to my office tomorrow. We can . . . discuss further."

It seems so far away . . . but I can do nothing more than agree.

"Alright, fine. We'll 'discuss.' "

She's still smirking, and I throw one back, if not in jest. Turning around to leave, I shake my head.

"Goodbye, dear."

I glance back at her, and give her a nod.

"Bye."

"Don't be late," She commands, but it's gentle — almost playful. Scrunching her face as I stop to meet her eyes one last time, she adds, "I look forward to it."

Hell. If that wasn't the biggest understatement of the century. Smiling, I give a playful snicker, and walk away.


	3. Crime & Punishment

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Before I begin, I just want to take the time to address a review I've received that has sort of rubbed me the wrong way, and I just want to clear up a few things because this is an important matter to me. **

**Darnez recently sent in one that reads, as follows: **

_**"This Emma is a horrible submissive and regina is a horrible dominant. They should just be equals instead"**_

**Now, normally, I would just brush past a negative review (not to be mistaken with constructive criticism — those I always welcome) without anything of merit in it, especially one so nonspecific. However, this really put me off, and I need to say why. **

**My goal in writing this story is to both portray a healthy, abuse-free BDSM relationship, and to, at the same time, remain true to the characters in which I am writing for. Darnez, the biggest problem with your statement is that you seem to assume that the dominant and the submissive in a BDSM relationship are not equals — but they are. They have both, as equal, consenting human beings, laid down the foundation, limits and allowances in the relationship. And, essentially, believe it or not, the submissive is the one who calls the shots. If the submissive doesn't like what's happening, guess what: that's it. Scene's over. They're both done. The submissive hands the dominant the reigns, but they can take them back at any time. So instead of 'equals,' maybe you meant to say 'switches?' Where either one can play the dominant or submissive role, and the roles can change at any time? If so, they did indeed discuss and leave that possibility open in chapter one.**

**Emma is definitely what you might call a 'bratty submissive,' in that she is mouthy to Regina, but that's the essence of her character and that does not make her a 'bad' submissive. She's ALWAYS mouthed off to Regina. Any other way would not be true to her character. Yes, there are some submissives that will obey their dominant immediately, want to be humiliated, and/or do whatever their dominant tells them to do or say without hesitation or comment, but that's just a different style relationship. Emma is a fiesty woman. She hasn't always been cool with Regina. She does not behave this way and she does not want to be that kind of submissive. If she did, Swan Queen would lose their dynamic. Regina knows this; Regina plays off of this. There is no right or wrong way to have a BDSM relationship (unless there is abuse involved, but then it's no longer a BDSM relationship; it's just abuse). It's what both parties like, and what works for them personally in the end. **

**Also — don't leave me a negative review and then give me nothing to work with. You think Emma's a bad submissive? Tell me why. Don't throw a negative comment at me and then not elaborate, because it's not criticism then — it's just rude. **

**Long story short. Don't like my version; don't like the way I'm doing things? Then write your own. **

**Kthxbye. **

* * *

I'm running late. Henry wasn't in his bed this morning; I had to search around the house and call him for a good fifteen minutes before I found him in the attic, looking through a storage trunk. He's lost one of his comic books — his favorite one — and he tells me he's going to have trouble going to school without it.

"Henry, come on," I say, tapping my brown leather boot against the wooden planks. "Come on; we're gonna be late."

"But I KNOW I put it nearby . . . just give me a few more minutes, okay?"

And so I had — but he still doesn't find it. I promise I'll look around for it in the end, and we head out the door in a rush, grabbing a toasted bagel and a piece of fruit on the way out. Not an apple, of course.

We're zooming down the road in the yellow bug now, and he's looking glum; staring soundlessly out the window. I feel bad for treating him with such abruptness; I don't always realize people have more sentimental value in objects than I.

"Hey," I say, and reach over to pat him on the back of the neck, ruffling his hair with my fingers. "Don't worry, kid. We'll find it."

He sighs. "I hope so."

"Well you said yourself you know you put it nearby. I'll ask grandma and grandpa if they've seen it, alright? They'll help. Do you think maybe you left it with Regina?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I'll run over and ask her today. No problem." I search his eyes for any sign of perking up. "Kay?"

Suddenly, he looks suspicious; he furrows his brows and tilts his head to look at me.

"You're gonna go see my mom at . . . work?"

"Yeah," I say, breathily, masking my response with casualness. "Why not?"

"Nothing. It's just . . . you know how she is at work." He's quiet for a moment, and then adds, "and you guys don't have any mission or anything."

"No but . . . " I'm suddenly flushed; I search my mind quickly for a response. "We're friends. We . . . hang out." I throw him a quick glance, frowning. "Why — is that weird?"

Henry looks at me for a moment, shrugs, and then gives a small smile. I can tell he doesn't buy it, but at least he doesn't push me. "No. Okay. Well, I'll see ya later, mom. Thanks."

* * *

So here I am, at one o' clock in the afternoon, at Regina's expansive office at last. I'm thirty minutes late, I realize, stepping in . . . but I'm sure she's got stuff to do; she's not paying attention to the clock.

"Regina?" I ask, entering cautiously, a paper bag in my left hand. She's writing at her desk, and doesn't shoo me away, so I sidle in further and approach her.

"You're late," she finally says, then glances up at me, briefly, her expression dark as she pierces me with those unforgiving eyes. But she looks away just as quickly, and continues scribbling on the paper in front of her.

Creasing my lips in slight discomfort, I lift the bag and place it on her desk.

"I brought lunch. Thought you might be hungry."

She doesn't look up, so I continue.

"Not Granny's. It's from that other place you like — the one with the hard apple cider. You know."

This time, she raises both brows and stops, lifting her neck to meet my eyes. She doesn't smile, but it's a start.

"Thank you."

I take this as an invitation; I sit down on the other side of her.

"So. What's up? What're you doing?"

"None of your concern, Miss Swan. Legal documents." She glances up and scrunches her nose, sarcastically, patronizing me. "Highly classified and _much_ too lawful for your standards."

I ignore her jab, though — my eyes have fallen upon something else . . . a black, gothic, sleek box with a beautiful silver lock resting on the sill behind her. Nodding toward it, I inquire.

"What's that." My tone is flat, but my curiosity is anything but.

Regina follows my gaze; she stares with me, taking a moment. And then, without a word, she rises from her seat. Watching her from where I'm sitting, I keep a straight face; she walks over to the box, grasps it with both hands, and then turns around, bringing it back to her desk. Sliding it onto the table slowly, she stares down at it, placing it between us.

"This," she places her palm against the top, and then looks at me. "Is a punishment box."

"What's it do," I ask, in yet another flat tone — but I'm highly awaiting her answer.

"It contains all of the punishments I can . . . potentially use on you for . . . violating certain rules."

Now this is interesting.

"Punishments?"

"Yes, Miss Swan. _Punishments_."

I'm incredibly curious now; she's got me right on the edge. Nodding toward the box again, I continue.

"And do I get to hear these punishments?"

"No." Regina says, curtly, and then lets her eyes trail back to the box. "Noooo, Miss Swan," she's smiling now, drawling her words . . . likely thinking about her future plans with a malice and pleasure only Regina could give, "you'll be experiencing each and every one of these soon enough for _yourself_, I'm quite certain." Looking back at me, she continues.

"But I _will_ explain how it works."

Raising both brows, I wait for her to continue.

"I have some set rules that I expect you, as my submissive, will follow. _Compliance_ with these rules will result in a satisfying and . . . elated experience for the both of us. **Violation** of these rules, however . . . " she meets my eyes gently, but seriously, to let me know she is not to be taken lightly, "will result in punishment."

I'm smirking again; she's challenging me. If only she knew how much I loved rising to it.

"And what are these rules?" I don't show any sort of emotion in my response, but it's a façade — it's how I deal with her.

Without a word, she slides a piece of paper out from beneath the ones she's been working on, grasping it between her long fingernails. She raises her neck, as if she is on the podium, about to make her closing statement as mayor . . . she reads.

"You will, at all times during our play, refer to me as 'Your Majesty.'" Leering at me, she continues. "**Not** Regina."

"I've broken that one already," I say, calmly.

"Yes," Regina says, and then returns her gaze to the paper. "Yes, you have."

She blinks once, and then continues.

"You will be punctual and well-groomed at all times in which I call upon you." She takes a pause. "And you will be available."

"What if I've got an emergency?" I throw back. "I'm the Sheriff, Regina — I'm gonna be on call sometimes."

"That's all well, Miss Swan. Think of it as being on call . . . for _me_ as well."

"Soooo . . . basically, you want me to grant your sexual desires whenever and whatever time of day you might get in the mood? Even if I'm not?" I'm highly in denial; whenever Regina wants it, I'm sure as hell never one to deny her. But she doesn't need to know that.

"Yes, I . . . suppose that's the simpleton way of putting it."

Smirking, I shake my head and roll my eyes.

"Yeah, alright. Next rule."

"Don't tell me 'next rule.'" She leers at me fiercely, I withdraw a bit. She lowers her eyes to the paper again, and thankfully decides to move on.

"You will dress in the underwear that I deem fit."

"You mean my black ones." I'm smirking fully now; I know just how much she likes those.

Refusing to look at me, she responds, as if it is the simplest thing in the world. "Perhaps."

"Your body," she suddenly continues, and I listen, happily, smug at feeling desired by her, "is mine to do as I please with."

This is a huge statement; it's definitely going to require every bit of my trust. But, strangely, with those words, I can feel my arousal heightening — I can feel myself wanting this as much as she probably does.

With a baited pause, as if sensing my anticipation, she finishes.

"And, lastly — you will _respect_ me. You will do as I say; exactly as I say. Every time you run your mouth to me, Miss Swan — you will run the risk of punishment."

Meeting my eyes, she sets the paper down, flat on the table, her lips creased in simple, commanding certainty.

"Well," I finally break the silence, almost humorously. "So that's that, huh."

"You're due."

"What?"

"Already, you've broken three of these rules. In the span of two days, you've been **late**, you've been **disrespectful**, unruly, argumentative . . . and you've referred to me as Regina . . . _more_ than once, during the play." She raises a brow; the fire is back in her eyes. "You're due. For punishment."

I won't lie — I'm excited. Geez. Isn't that screwed up? I can't fathom why.

"Alright, then." I say, challengingly. "Reach into the punishment box and give me what I'm due." It's second nature, really, to be fresh with her. I'm sure she's right . . . I'll be receiving a hell of a lot of punishments from here on out.

There is a long, tension-filled silence as she continues to stare severely. Suddenly, with a quick, commanding flick of her wrist, she undoes the latch of the box beside her, using magic. A serpent-like energy flows from her palm and surrounds the middle of the object, like a settling cloud . . . the lid opens, and, slowly, a large number of cards come out, levitating between us.

Regina grabs one, sending the rest back. Without looking at it, however, she hands it to me. Tentatively, I take it, but I don't do anything.

"Read it," she commands.

My heart is pounding; I look down at the card.

"Submissive . . . receives ten . . . lashings," I recite, slowly, out loud. Pausing on the last sentence, I hesitate.

"And?" Regina presses when I don't continue. She's sounding more and more like a high school principal, reprimanding one of her students for bad behavior; I haven't heard this tone since I first came into town. I frown, and look her in the eyes, defiantly.

"And . . . asks for every one."

In a slow, almost slithering sort of movement . . . like a phantom — a ghost of a woman, perhaps, but twice as visible — Regina walks to the other end of the room. She shuts and locks the office doors, turns around, and then she makes her way over to the wall adjacent: a black, closed shelf that I've never really paid attention to decorates it. I watch her open it; she turns around, presumably to get something out, and I shift in my seat. Turning back, she moves forward toward me, slowly. She's gripping two things in either hand that I find almost alarming: a medium length black stick, and what looks to be two leather wrist cuffs, attached to each other with a chain.

"Uhh. That your secret stash of Victorian torture devices you keep in case Goldilocks steals from your apple supply i—"

"This," Regina cuts in, before I can finish my weak quip. "Is a cane." She runs two fingers up it, slowly, staring at it as if it is the most delicious thing in the world; her lip twitches with the twisted pleasure, and she grins. "I much prefer this to the whip; it's more durable, shorter . . . easy to maneuver. The strokes are much more . . . personal."

I don't speak, not at first.

"Would you care to venture how . . . _personal_ it is?" She's cocked her head to look at me now, her fingers still gripping the artifact gently, like a sapphire or treasured jewel. Her face exudes an almost psychotic sort of stare; she's a cat; a lioness, gone mad, having fun with her meal.

I quirk a brow, quickly, and half shake my head in response.

"Not really."

"_Really_. Well, isn't that just an unfortunate twist of events for you."

There's a moment of pause; she lowers the cane to her side, and commands:

"Strip."

"What."

"Strip," she repeats, more harshly. "To your underwear."

I stand there, still defying her. She sneers, and hisses.

"_Nooow_."

Slowly, I begin unbuttoning my top, and then sliding it off, up and over my head. I'm wearing my black lace again; I hope she appreciates it. I look at her, almost disapprovingly, and I can tell she does; she's staring, the faintest smirk tugging at the left corner of her mouth. Slowly, I pull my boots off, and remove my pants until I'm in just what she has commanded: my underwear. I look at her.

Lifting her neck, she speaks again. "Turn around."

"Oh, right, so this is gonna be like the good old Catholic school schtick, right—"

"Not. A. WORD." Without warning, she smacks me on the front thigh with the tip of the cane. I give a small yelp; it doesn't hurt _terribly_, but it does sting . . . and she's surprised me. Shutting up, I suddenly feel the rush of adrenaline flow from my chest and up through my body; I turn around. Regina is no joke. Regina is deadly.

"Bend over the desk, Miss Swan."

Furrowing my brows, I can tell my eyes are wide . . . I do as she says, slowly, my breasts pushing up against the cold, smooth surface. I wait.

"Put your hands behind your back."

Slowly, I do so . . . and she slides the leather cuffs on. My hands are tied; I'm trapped. I can't fight.

Well. Not with my arms, anyway . . .

I can feel Regina touching me from behind now . . . she's sliding my underwear down my thighs and to the floor, exposing my ass. She traces one finger down the length of my spine after she's done so; tracing her fingers all across my bare skin, as if massaging me. It's chilling. I can feel goosebumps forming.

"Regina, you're—"

"_**Silence**__!_" Again, she's hissing; an immediate, voracious response, and I suddenly realize what I've done . . . _shit. Called her Regina._ _Goddamn it._ I need to learn to bite my tongue. "One more lash for that name!"

Jeez. I widen my eyes, looking to the floor beside me. Maybe it's just better if I say nothing from now on . . .

"Now," her tone is slithering; calm once more. "What would you like to say to me?"

Well. There goes that plan.

"Uhh." I don't know; _what does she want again?_ I tilt my neck as far to the side as possible, in order to throw her a glance from my position. "I'm sorry?"

She widens her eyes in fury; a burning rage, and lowers her stare to pierce mine.

"Ask for it."

I say nothing.

"You are to ASK for every lashing, Miss Swan," she repeats, as if reminding me of the rules. "Now _ask_ for it."

Still, I say nothing.

And then, suddenly — _whack! _I open my mouth at the intense sting; she's smacked my right buttock. Holding back a yelp, I let out a long, breathy sigh instead; it's the only thing I can do without letting too much loose.

_One._

**Whack!** Another; this one is sharper, and she's pulled back on the cane just before hitting me. It's in the same spot — I've barely had time to recover from the last. Again, my mouth opens, but this time, I don't make a sound.

_Two._

"Every time you defy me is another lash, Miss Swan. React wisely."

I'm silent; I can barely form words at the moment.

_Whack!_

_Three._

"Ahhhhhhh," I groan, this time, and close my eyes. If she hits me again in that spot, she might break the skin. She's eased up, though — she's not hitting me quite so fast.

"Go on," I hear her say. "What do you want?"

At first, I need to catch my breath. But I'm in such a strange state of mind . . . I can hardly register what's happening at the moment . . .

"G . . . ive me. One."

Weirdly, I comply, without arguing.

I can't see her face, but I'm sure she's smirking.

_Whack!_

_Four._

This one was softer — she's moved down, more to the side of my ass, rather than smack in the middle. She's hit a less sensitive spot. Rewarding my verbal cue, perhaps.

"Would you like another?"

I swallow, panting a bit. But I'm completely surrendered to her touch; her handling of me.

"Y . . . es," I manage to get out. "Another."

_Whack! _This one was hard; she's snapped it back before striking.

_Five._

This is the most intense feeling of . . . floating _nothingness_ . . . numbness, but to a point in which all of my sense are _heightened_ — it's an indescribable contradiction. I know I can safeword, but, for some reason . . . it's almost as if I want to keep floating . . .

"Again," I say; I'm floating. "One more."

_Whack!_

Interesting hit — it's in the crease of my buttock and thigh. The pain is intense, but it strangely feels good; it's as if my brain isn't registering the sting any longer . . . or is, perhaps, interpreting it as pleasure . . .

_Six._

"Do you deserve this?" Regina asks; she sounds like the Evil Queen, her tone a purring, hissing drawl in the back of my mind. She's far away. "Do you deserve this for how you've behaved?"

"Yeah," I pant. And I know I do. "Again. P . . . please."

_Whack._

It's a soft hit again; same spot. It carries the sting out, but not intensely — it's a nice finesse to the last lash.

_Seven._

"Finish me," I suddenly say, boldly. My voice is rising — I'm pulling myself back into reality.

_Whack!_

_Eight!_

"Finish me!" I yell; I'm almost screaming, now — not even thinking about what I'm saying. "Finish me, Regina!"

_Whack! Whack!_

_Nine! Ten!_

Both intense hits — two in a row, however, so the stings merge. I feel as though they were impulsively done.

"_**Don't**_ call me Regina!" She hisses, with another lash, this time on the back of my thigh.

I groan with the pain; it's intense, but I'm so lost in the confines of my own mind that I cannot be hurt . . .

It's exciting. It's so exciting. I can't speak, my heart is pounding my ears. The way she's hitting me — the way I'm letting her punish me. It's Regina; it's my Regina. There is no one more masterfully keen . . .

_Whack!_

_Twelve._

I can feel myself coming down, and I'm sure my skin is red. I'm registering the tingling, now . . . I'm realizing the pattern I've been staring at is, in fact, Regina's office wallpaper. My chest is heaving; I close my eyes.

And then, Regina's hot breath is in my ear . . . she's leaning over me from behind, her palm flat against the desk next to me.

"My precious Savior," she purrs; I can feel the teeth against my earlobe. She's grinning. "What a _good_ Swan you are."

She runs her hands down the length of my arms, and then undoes my cuffs, skillfully. I let my arms fall a bit, and she kisses behind my ear, moving away to give me some space.

"You may rise, Miss Swan."

I do, slowly. I'm still a bit dazed from the intensity of the session. Turning around, I look at her, the sting in my skin still prominent as I come to.

Regina's looking at me, though — and this time, it is Regina. Her eyes are void of any fury. She steps closer, toward me, and then takes me by the arm.

"Here," she commands, and leads me to the sofa in front of the fireplace. Sitting me down, she pushes me gently, so I lean back, and then lets go. "Relax, dear. Wait here."

Still, I'm dazed . . . I don't really think about where she's gone until I feel her touch, gently, from beneath me . . . she's on one knee, sliding my underwear back on. As she does so, she places a hand on my knee, and looks up at me — I look back.

"Do you feel alright?" She asks; the dramatic change of voice is almost unrecognizable. She's Regina again; that's for sure.

"Yeah," I say, breathing out, and then letting my chest fall with the intense sigh. "Jesus Christ," I finally say; I'm back. "That is some hard shit."

Regina smiles, softly, and then rises to her feet. "Here." She has a wet, warm cloth in her hands, and she signals for me to turn over. "Lay down."

I do, slowly, and she presses the material to my skin — it feels incredibly comforting. For a long minute or so, she works, dulling my sting.

I almost feel like I could fall asleep; I'm exhausted.

"So," I ask, after a little while. "You always this nice to people you torture?"

Regina laughs a bit; she's near my head, now, and she stops with the cloth. "Perhaps I went a bit too far."

"No, no," I reassure, and then begin sitting up. "It was fun. Definitely not too much."

Raising a brow from her kneeling position in front of the couch, she looks up at me. "Oh? Fun?"

"Well." I say, rolling my head playfully. "As fun as being beaten to a pulp can be, anyway."

She smirks, again — I smirk back. Rising to her feet, she begins rummaging around the room, tucking everything safely away and out of sight.

"Are you well enough to go home?" She asks from the other side of the room.

Instinctively, my immediate response is to dismiss any exhaustion, and get out there, on my own — I'm a lone wolf — I don't wield to any pain. But the couch is comfortable . . . and. Well. A few minutes couldn't hurt.

"I guess I can rest for a few," I say, and she nods, and then walks away, back to her desk.

I end up falling asleep, though, in the comfort of her presence, and I don't wake up until she's nudging me, a bit roughly in her way, and instructing me I need to pick Henry up. I rise to my feet, get myself dressed, and leave with her, but we part ways after she locks up with her big, silver skeleton key; we need to retreat for a while; let each other breathe.

I can't wait to be punished again.


	4. Denial

It's early; very early, by the looks of it — everything is still dark. What am I doing again… ? Oh, right. I'm in bed. Sleeping. Or I _was_.

It takes me a minute, but I suddenly realize what's woken me up — the bright, vibrating phone next to my face. I reach for it and, squinting, try to make out the letters. It's a text: from Regina.

_What time is it?_

"Jesus," I mumble to myself, reading the screen's clock and then unlocking my phone with a passcode. 5:23 am. What could she possibly want at this hour?

Opening the message, I read one simple phrase:

**\- Are you awake?**

Rolling my eyes, I respond, laying back down against the pillow and holding the phone above me.

_\- Somebody better be dying._

There is only a few seconds delay before I see the three little dots indicating she is typing a response … she's awake. And she must really want to talk.

\- **I need a favor from you.**

Ugh.

_\- Does it involve getting up at this hour?_

Typing . . .

**\- Don't be coy with me.**

I smirk, slightly, and wait for her to finish the rest of the message — she's still typing. So like her to put me in my place first, though. The rest comes through just as expected; I struggle to read it in the dark.

**\- I simply need you to get a package for me. I'm in the office today. In my bedroom, on my vanity, there is a small, black box; it is wrapped. Come by later and drop it off. Henry will let you in.**

Though it's not a problem, I can't help but to begrudge her for waking me up, and for something so simple. Regina's always been a morning person — at least more so than me, who is not in the slightest — but it's never been a problem; we've never gotten in each other's way over it. I would usually just wake up to an empty bed— that was typical. Regina wasn't one to linger in the morning, no matter how much I sometimes wished she would. But I get it.

Today, though . . . I'm a little put off.

_\- You couldn't have asked me to do this in a few hours? When the sun was up?_

_-_** I need it by nine.**

Sighing, loudly, blowing a raspberry out through my lips, I don't answer right away; instead, I cross my arms in front of me and lay back down onto my pillow, dangling my phone over the bed. Damn. She's lucky I'd do anything for her because nine . . . yeah. That's pushing it. If I wanted to make it to her house and then her office in time, I'd have to leave here by 8 . . . at the latest. Ugh. Only an hour or so left to sleep.

Begrudgingly, I lift my head a little bit, pull my phone back up, and send a hasty reply.

_\- Sure. See you then. Bye._

* * *

I'm here. Finally. It's a Saturday, it's five of nine, and I'm here, one shower and three cups of coffee later. Holding the package Regina wanted me to get, I enter her office, fully prepared to set it down on her desk and then go back to sleep. Any other day I would have probably peeked at it— I'm sure it's probably just documents; something she needs for mayoral purposes. But today, I don't care.

I don't see her at her desk, or at all, at first. Maybe she's stepped out. I don't know. Doing a once-through scan, I call out to her as I approach her desk, setting the box down upon it.

"Regina. Here. Got your thing. K? …Uh, cool. I'm heading out now."

Turning on my heel, giving the room a last, quick glance, I start to stride out… but someone grabs me by the wrist, making me jump. It's Regina, but that doesn't mean my heart hasn't skipped about twenty beats.

"Shit! Jesus!" I whirl around and face her, straightening out. "What the hell!" Taking a few deep breaths, I shake my head. "Don't do that!"

She doesn't say a word, though. Gripping tightly onto my wrist, she parts her lips, and, smirking, closes her eyes and leans forward, kissing me. She's taking my mouth completely in hers; softly and hungrily. Her breath is in perfect, calm synchronization with her demeanor; but I can sense a heated excitement within, like the wolf upon her subordinate. She smiles against my lips, confidently.

I kiss her back; it's all I can do, of course . . . but I'm slow, and lazy . . . admittedly not quite as into it as she is. I mean, it's nine in the morning. I still feel the heaviness upon my whole body; I'm groggy, and nearly unexcitable. After a moment we pull away, and I can feel my brows furrow.

"Since when are you so affectionate?" I ask, genuinely surprised at her hello.

Again, she doesn't speak; but this time, she isn't smiling — her face looks, instead, inquisitive . . . lips parted, eyes staring somewhere into the distance of her own mind . . . but there is an overwhelming cunningness to it that she is attempting, pretty unsuccessfully, to mask. Regina could never look innocent; not to me. She looks away, and to the side, now; then behind her at the package I just placed.

"Open it," she says.

Frowning, I stare at her for a second. When she doesn't speak further, I break away from her contact and walk over to the package. Taking it between my fingers, I open the box and tear away the tissue paper inside — it is a simple, white skirt with fishnet stockings. I pull it out, and look at it.

"Uhh. Let me guess," I say, looking at it, and then at her. "You want me to put it on."

Regina raises both brows and lowers her chin, grinning at me in absolute satisfaction. "You've gotten sharper, my dear." She smiles more fully, her lip curling up to show me her teeth. "I'll give you a moment." And with that, she turns around.

I've always found it silly, the way Regina refuses to look at me when I change. It's as if she thinks I'll be embarrassed — as if she hasn't already seen all of me, one hundred times over, already. What's a little change going to do? But every time I would get out of bed to pull my pants on, or fasten my bra, Regina would avert her eyes, and I figured I might as well let her do it. Regina never liked me watching her change; she would always signal for me to turn the other way . . . and she almost never got fully undressed during sex, anyway . . . she made sure it was always under dim lighting. It was just out of respect, I guess, that she granted me the same privilege. But I didn't need it.

Her back to me, she signals with her hand to hurry it up, pulling me out of my thoughts. "Go on," she commands.

I sigh, but I know I've agreed to be at her every beck and call, and with that, I begin. Pulling my skinny jeans off, I slide into the skirt . . . it's short . . . and, with some difficulty, pull on the stockings, too. Ugh. I never wear these sorts of things. It takes me a minute, and, when I'm finally in them, I feel . . . weird.

"Alright," I say.

Slowly, Regina turns around — she's smirking again, as she does— taking me in. Bringing one hand up, resting her index finger upon her chin, she studies me as her mouth curls further and further.

"Mm. Lose the jacket as well," she finally says; she's referring to the red leather jacket I threw on before leaving today. I do so, sliding it off my shoulders and letting it fall to the floor, never taking my eyes off of hers. But I feel small, somehow; I'm not very sexy at the moment. I woke up an hour ago and I probably smell like toothpaste and coffee. My hair's a mess, and I'm in just a white tank top underneath. That with the skirt and stockings makes a pretty stupid combination.

Yet, Regina's looking at me like the most delicious piece of meat she's ever seen. I frown, lowering my head, but still keep my eyes on hers.

She edges forward, saying nothing; I watch her, my head down. If I were a cat, my ears would be pressed flat against my head — she the dominant alpha — asserting herself in her territory. As she reaches me, she slowly leans forward and kisses me again, her teeth grazing my bottom lip . . . her hands running up and down my arms, gripping them. She's almost purring. I back up a bit, so I can lean on her desk, and I bring one leg up to rest upon it, both palms pressed against the cold surface. Arching my back a little to meet her hips with my own, I kiss her back, lazily. She's much more aggressive, however — her hands trailing my body, up and down . . . she removes herself from my mouth and begins placing kisses along my neck; I arch it so allow her easier exposure.

Damn. This is probably the most affectionate she's ever been since . . . well. God knows when.

"My God, Regina," I say between kisses, breathily; she's hardly listening, though . . . instead, she's ravenously kissing at my neck, biting my skin . . . she's leaning forward, into me, as far as she can go, her body between my legs, now . . . crawling, pushing me further and further upon the desk.

She curls her long fingernails into one of my thighs, hard — I jump. "Ow!"

But it's enough to shut me up, and I bring my free hand up to her hair then, running my fingers through the thick, brunette tresses. I was unsure of this at first; really not in the mood to play— not this early . . . but Regina's getting more and more aggressive — her hands are teasing, resting on both of my thighs, the fingernails curled ever so slightly into my flesh . . . she's nipping at my neck, and I finally find myself closing my eyes, parting my own lips . . . letting out a soft moan.

"Regina," I almost protest, again, in small sighs.

Regina suddenly pulls her neck up, backing up a little; she looks me in the eyes, and then stands, straightening. I'm still leaning against her desk, looking back at her.

"You wanna take this to—"

But before I can finish, Regina leans forward, again, placing both hands on my hips, gripping me tightly. She pulls me up, away from the desk, and then pushes me so I'm facing toward the left wall of her office; I obey, willingly. There is such force in her nonverbal command — it throws me off guard. And then, she pushes me again. She's leading me to the side of the room; a long, rectangular mirror upon the wall, between two caudlepieces. Beneath the mirror is an end table, which is good — it's somewhere to grip onto — to place my hands. Facing the wall, I stare at my own confused, frowning reflection . . . and then at hers, behind me. She looks completely serious; nothing on her face is giving her away.

Her hands still upon my hips, she slowly situates herself behind me, pushing her body up against my own, gripping tightly to my waist. Her lips are pressed against my ear now; I stare at us in the mirror.

"Right on time," she whispers, and I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand. Her voice gives me goosebumps.

It's been a few days since I've seen her, but even so, this is almost too much for me to take in. This is the most Regina's seemed to crave sex I've ever seen her. God. She's got me in fishnets in the middle of her office at nine am, for Christ's sake . . . I should have figured it out.

She's biting my earlobe; latching onto the bottom with her white teeth. Running her long nails down the length of my arms, then my waist, my hips . . . and down to my thighs. Still biting at my ear, she trails one hand up, between my thighs, and presses at the fabric there; applying pressure to my clit.

I swallow, staring blankly at my reflection.

Regina's moved her other hand back up to hold me by the waist, now, and she's pressing into me with her hips; my legs are spread, my stomach pressed against the small side table beneath the mirror. I'm gripping it gently, with both hands, so as to keep my balance.

I feel one of her hands slither away from my clit, now . . . she's scratching her nails against the skin between my thighs instead, and the fabric of the stockings. Hooking one of her claw-like nails into a hole, she tears it; I hear it rip.

"What, you buy these just so you could ruin them—"

"Shhhh," she hisses immediately in my ear, and then bites down once more, harder, stopping what she is doing to dig her nails into my skin. I swallow lightly, holding back a yelp. My heart skips. The grip she has with her other hand upon my hip is gentle, though — she's helping to balance me.

"Tell me what you'd like, Miss Swan."

I look at her face in the mirror; her cheek is pressed against me, mouth next to my ear . . . she's smirking, a grin so catlike in its regal, poisonous serenity. I know better than to disobey.

"Yeah," I finally bring myself to say, softly. "Okay." Feeling a bit more into it — becoming more aroused as she continues trailing her fingers in circles between my thighs . . . the cool air against my bare skin now that the fabric is torn . . . yeah. I get braver. "Fuck me."

And then, without warning at all, she slides two fingers inside of me. I open my mouth at the sudden entrance; it's not often Regina gets me off this way. She doesn't need to. Her nails are incredibly sharp, which adds to the tenseness I feel — and I gasp. But Regina grips me tighter with the hand upon my waist— maybe it's a reassurance — she's masterful — she knows how to angle her fingers so they will not scratch. Curling them inside of me, the fleshy part against me, rather . . . she searches . . . she gets a feel for me, gently . . . I grip the table, hard, swallowing again, looking down and away from our reflections. I want to concentrate; help her find what she's looking for. I move my hips in slow circles.

"You're tense, dear," she muses, her voice smooth and husky. "Relax."

I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and then release it, leaning more forward, gripping the table harder, and opening my legs more. It helps; Regina re-situates the fingers upon my waist, and curls the two inside of me even further. She pushes upward. I gasp at the strong feeling; she grins. I see her in the mirror; her eyes have lit up in triumphant victory.

"There we are," she purrs, against my neck. Massaging the same spot with her curled fingers, gently, she picks up speed a bit. Her rhythm is fast; small tiny, albeit rapid gestures against me.

I groan a little bit; it's definitely been a while since she's done this. Since_ I've_ even tried to do this. But her fingers are curling . . . tempting me . . . coaxing me, and, in response, I close my eyes, swallow, and lean forward more, spreading my legs even further apart. It feels more comfortable, so I begin to move with her rhythm. I don't look at our reflection; my eyes are shut . . . I want to concentrate on the sole feeling. Pushing my hips more into the table, gripping tightly, I can start to feel myself gyrating with her fingers . . . forward, back . . . forward, back. . . slow at first, as I find it . . . and then, I pick up speed as she does, opening my mouth . . . letting a small gasp escape. She's pushing up into my walls so intensely that I feel my own abdomen lifting — I'm pushing myself up, with her — my body does not touch the surface for a mere moment. We resume, faster . . . harder . . . the table is starting to move, too, as I bump it each time I come back down and forward . . . I open my eyes and stare into my own, in front of me . . . my reflection is trembling; the mirror almost vibrating as she coaxes me.

Or is that _me_?

"Regi—Regina—" I gasp; breathily, as I slam against the desk, again and again. In my state, I've, once again, forgotten her preferred name . . .

Suddenly, though, she's removed the hand from upon my waist and gripped a full handful of my long hair. Yanking it, pulling my neck back, I close my eyes and open my mouth; the surprise of the pull makes me moan. Regina hisses, though, holding me there as she continues pushing up inside of me.

"Don't make a _**sound**_," she hisses, "until I _tell_you to."

I don't respond; I can't. It takes all of the strength within me to hold back my cries, and, as I feel myself on the verge of cumming, I let out a tiny whimper. It just escapes — I can't hold it back. It is all that escapes, thought, and if Regina wasn't so strangely fucking terrifying at the moment, it would've been much, much louder.

She pulls back on my hair harder in response; I stop, immediately. Falling silent, I bite my lip to keep the sounds in. My face is toward the ceiling; I open my eyes for a moment, but close them almost instantly.

Regina's stopped, now . . . she's no longer motioning with her fingers . . . she pushes up, hard, but slowly . . . it's as if she's calming . . . going to stop. But my legs are shaky — I was so close — _how can she be stopping now?_ _God fucking damn it, Regina!_ Frustrated, I let out a huff. At the sound, Regina tugs on my hair again; I open my mouth, frown, almost angrily now, and furrow my brows.

_Sighing doesn't count. _I argue with her in my head; it's all I can do.

Regina's suddenly moving behind me . . . I can feel her push herself further forward . . . her breasts are suddenly against the back of my shoulders . . .

"Move, and I _will_ destroy you," she commands. She sounds exactly like the Evil Queen she once was; I know she's serious. I blink; stare, blankly . . . and do exactly as she says. She's let go of my hair, now, and is instead trailing her free hand down the jugular artery in my neck, letting her nails graze against the flesh as if I am a cat worthy of adoration. But she is, ironically, the one with the claws.

Her fingers are still inside of me, and she leans, a bit, bending her elbow . . . situating herself so she can hit my clit with her thumb as well. I can see the lust in her eyes in the mirror . . . and I hadn't realized just how distressed _I_ looked until now. My hair is messy, as if gently windblown, and it's falling around my shoulders . . . my face holds a deep desperation and determination and . . . what is that . . . submission? God. I've never known. I'm frowning, too; struggling to stay quiet under my Queen's command. She has no idea what the hell she can do to me. Or, well. That look on her face indicates that she probably _does_ know exactly what she can do. And she is.

Regina's massaging my clit with her thumb now, hard, and curling her fingers again, massaging my spot from inside. She's leaning into the motion, her other hand resting upon my waist, again, holding me in place as I struggle to grip the table; I've pretty much forgotten it's there.

"Nowwww," she purrs, moving her entire body with the motion that makes me want to scream . . . so slow and intricate and_ fuck, is it good. "_Who am I, Miss Swan."

I swallow, closing my eyes now, moving my hips with the motions of her hand once more. I'm shaking.

Apparently, though, I haven't answered quickly enough for her, because she removes the hand from the curve of my waist and grabs my hair again, pulling me back so my ear rests against her mouth. "_**Who**_ am I," she demands, and I open my mouth — but only a whimper comes out.

"M-M . . . "

"What was that?" Regina asks, teasing my clit again. Fuck. This is torturous. "Would you like to be able to make some noise, dear? Hm?"

I don't answer, but fuck would I. This whole silence thing is killing me. And the fact that she is, quite literally, dangling me on the edge of my orgasm . . . if such a thing were possible . . . fuck. I can't stand it. Swallowing again, I open my eyes, and side-glance at her from in the mirror . . . god, is she enjoying this. Holy shit. She looks like a snake.

"Who am I?" She presses, once more, thumb still on my clit.

"My . . . queen . . . " I manage to get out, and, with that, she lets go of my hair, and curls her fingers gently around my neck instead, pulling me back further . . . this time, not forcibly. She bites my earlobe. Increasing her rhythm, she coaxes, harder and harder, massages me, faster and faster . . . I'm moving with her, we've got it . . . we've got it— fuck.

"Fuck!" I yell out, and Regina keeps going . . . god. I'm so close; so fucking close. Whining, I try to move up and almost away from her touch, as it is so intense . . . but her teeth are still hooked upon my ear, and she follows in response.

I tense, immediately . . . and open my eyes, letting out a final cry of defeat.

And suddenly, Regina's stopped, once more. I can physically feel the weight of my desire, wanting to take me over; eat me alive. I'm so tense I'm shaking, and _she's not fucking finishing me. _What the hell did I do?! What did I do wrong?

"And there it is. Again." I hear her say, against my ear, her entire body against my back, her breath hot as her lips curl up, and I feel the smirk form against my skin. "I told you not to make a sound until I say so." Slowly, torturously, she slides her two wet fingers, likely dripping with my fluids, out of me; I feel myself panic.

"Bad women don't get happy endings, now do they?"

It's too much for me. In an intense moment of overwhelming frustration, I whip around, grab Regina by the arms, twirl her around and push her back, against the desk — we've now swapped positions. I'm upon her. She doesn't stop me; she's easy to overpower — and I can tell by the surprised look on her face that I've caught her completely off guard.

"God DAMN it, Regina — would you just fucking finish me!?" I snarl, slipping both of my fingers inside of myself in front of her, bucking my hips forward. With the other hand, I'm gripping onto the desk, and suddenly I reach for her hand, attempting to force her into me . . .

But Regina's fast. In one simple flick of the wrist, she's thrown me to the other side of the room — my back to the wall. I struggle, but to no avail, and she's advancing on me, her upper lip curled in a disgusted sneer.

"You think you have the right to give _me_ orders?" She berates, angrily, stepping closer and closer, holding me against the wall with a strong, invisible force of magic. I struggle, but my resistance is useless. Still — like _hell_ I'm going to just let her win like that. She's pissing me off — big time. I wish she'd stop playing with me like a little laboratory rat and_ give me what I want! _I didn't come out here this morning to be tortured. My heart's pounding in my chest, and I'm sneering right back at her, my teeth clenched in both anger and the force of the magic holding me against the wall. Regina tilts her head and continues, staring me down. "You're forgetting, my pet — **I** am the Queen."

I'm panting; my hands are binded at my sides — I can't even move them at all. Regina's right in front of me now, her face inches from mine, and, after a few long moments, she's suddenly reached forward and grabbed my neck.

I gasp, but she hasn't closed her fingers around it yet; it's a warning. With her other free hand, Regina's now teasing my clit, violently, and I feel myself wanting to cry out again; I'm almost burning with the arousal. Moving my hips with her, I close my eyes and let out a yelp — I'm so close — so fucking close — Regina's got me right on the edge — and then she closes her fingers around my neck, tight. I can't breathe in; I can't say a word. I choke, and struggle against her.

"R—g—Regin—a," I stammer out through choked, tight air, and open my mouth, letting my eyes roll back into my head. Between the ministrations she's providing and the grip she has on my throat I'm feeling lightheaded, and my world is going out of focus . . .

And suddenly, all at once, she lets go, releases me, and stops touching me altogether. Coughing violently, I slide down against the wall and to the floor — my legs will no longer hold me — they're shaking too much. My entire body feels chilled; I can't even move for a second. Shit. Goddamn it, shit — I'm so fucking wet and so fucking tense. I need her to touch me so badly. I can't function. I can't even get off of the floor.

"Get out of here," Regina suddenly growls, and after a long moment, I bring myself to look up at her blurred form; she's standing over me, her upper lip still curled against her teeth. She's angry. Very angry.

"You can't… be— serious," I pant, watching as the details of her severe face sharpen as they fall into back focus; I spread my palms against the floor. I'm heated, and it feels like everything between my legs is pounding — as is my pulse. "You can't just—leave me—like this! Fuck, Regina!"

"I said LEAVE," she snarls again, this time with more gusto, and her voice is louder with the hiss. "You are not deserving of gratification, Emma."

She's used my first name, and that's how I know she's serious. On all levels. Frowning, I furrow my brows and glance up at her in desperation.

"Now."

"I'm not leaving until you finish me," I say, boldly. "YOU made me get up at the crack of dawn. YOU made me come out here. YOU fucked with me; you can't just … leave me like this!"

"Oh, but I can," Regina replies, and then narrows her eyes, looking down at me with such a fierceness I might have even wanted to flinch. "And I _**will**_."

And with that, a puff of purple smoke — it engulfs her form — it clears, and she's gone.

"GodDAMN it!" I yell, and climb to my feet, kicking the wall violently. I'm so mad I can't even see straight. But Regina's gone, and here I am, standing in her office, alone. I've got no choice but to leave; I know she won't be back until I do so. Clenching my fists and throwing out a few more choice words, I gather my stuff and storm out in a fury, my fingernails dug so tightly into my palms that one of them starts bleeding on the way. In my anger, I haven't even bothered to change into the right clothes . . . but it doesn't matter. I drive home carelessly, staring ahead without seeing.

She's going to finish me if it's the last thing I make her do.


End file.
